Embedded Files
The hardest part isn't the monsters. It's sitting at a table meant for three. In the stillness between grief and belonging, Nellie finds herself caught in a legacy she never asked for—and a family that might still choose her anyway.
Word Count: 13.5k
TW: light angst/emotional with fluff. brief depictions of canon-level violence, nightmare, panic attack, medical care plan (eyedrops and nebulizer). use of mild language
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The room is quiet, the kind of quiet that comes with a house still waking up. Somewhere nearby, faint birdsong threads through the crack in the guest room window. Nellie stirs beneath the blankets, still half-lost in sleep. Her limbs are heavy, her body sore in a way she's grown accustomed to, as if her bones are still remembering the fire. Her lungs ache when she takes in a deeper breath, catching on the end like a tear in fabric. She coughs softly, turning her face toward the pillow. For a moment, she forgets where she is. The blindfold over her eyes, the stiffness in her chest, the smell of unfamiliar laundry detergent, everything sends her thoughts scrambling.
Then she hears it. The soft, slow creak of the door. A four-year-old's version of sneaking: exaggerated tiptoes, the swish of pajama fabric, the not-so-quiet whisper of effort as a little hand pushes the door all the way open. Nellie freezes, instinctively bracing.
“Hi,” a small voice says, barely above a whisper but loud enough to make her flinch.
She doesn't respond right away. Her heart is still hammering from the abrupt wake-up, and her mind is struggling to match the voice with the moment. But then she remembers. The drive. The house. Sam. And this little voice—
“You’re still sick?”
Dean. Sam's son.
She hears him take a few more steps before the bed dips beside her, tiny hands pressing carefully into the mattress. She moves slowly into a sitting position, stiff from sleeping and feeling a sense of uncertainty. She isn't used to people sitting that close without asking. But the boy isn't heavy. He isn't loud. He is just... there.
She slowly lets out a breath, her lungs protesting a bit. “Yeah,” she answers softly. “Still a little sick.”
“Oh.” Dean sounds thoughtful. “You sleep a lot.”
That makes something flutter behind her ribs, close to a laugh, but not quite.
He shifts beside her, his legs kicking a little over the edge of the bed. “Miracle sleeps a lot, too. But he snores.”
“He does?”
“Mhm. Like this.” He scrunches up his face and gives an exaggerated snore.
Nellie smiles, faint and slow, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. It feels unfamiliar, but not in a bad way.
Dean goes quiet for a moment, just sitting with her like it is the most natural thing in the world. Then he asks, gently, “Do your eyes hurt?”
Her hand twitches slightly near the gauze. “No,” she says after a beat. “Not really. They just... don't work right now.”
“Oh.” Another thoughtful pause. “It's okay. You can borrow mine.”
That makes her laugh; quiet, shaky, but real. “Thanks, kid.”
The room falls into a warm kind of stillness again. She lets herself lean back into the headboard, not entirely relaxed, but not as wound tight as she had been. Dean doesn't ask too many questions, and he doesn't need her to talk. He just sits there with his little legs swinging and his hand resting near hers like it belongs there, and chatting away. For the first time in a long while, Nellie doesn't feel entirely alone.
The soft sound of footsteps pads down the hallway outside the room, followed by a polite knock and a gentle creak as the door opens.
“Dean?” Eileen's voice comes in light and lilting, warm with maternal exasperation. “Did you sneak away from your cereal again?”
The little boy perks up. “I didn't sneak! I was quiet!”
She chuckles softly as she steps fully into the room. “You left your spoon floating in milk. That's not quiet, sweetheart.” She crosses over to the bed, her voice lowering with sincerity. “Nellie, I'm so sorry. He's usually pretty good about boundaries. We're still working on the whole 'personal space' concept.”
Nellie shifts, sitting up slightly with Dean's help. “It's okay,” she says, voice hushed but steady. “Really. I didn't mind. He's... sweet.” Her hand lightly grazes the bedspread where Dean had been sitting, the ghost of his presence still warms the space beside her.
Eileen smiles, and though Nellie can't see it, she can hear the kindness in her tone.
“Well, he's taken quite the shine to you already.” There is a beat of comfortable silence before she continues, her tone soft but offering choice. “I wanted to ask—no pressure at all—but would you like to join us for breakfast? Or would you rather take some time for yourself? You don't have to decide right away. I just want you to know you're welcome either way.”
Nellie hesitates. It isn't the invitation that startled her; it is the way it is offered. No demand. No guilt. Just… freedom. As if what she wants actually matters. That isn't something she is used to. Her mother had never asked what she wanted; she had only told her what she was supposed to do, think, and feel.
“I can… I can eat with you,” she replies finally, her voice tentative but clear. “If that's okay.”
Eileen's smile widens. “Of course it's okay. We'd love to have you.” She gently places a hand on her niece's shoulder. “Take your time. I'll come help you get settled in a minute, alright?”
Nellie nods slowly. “Okay.”
The woman turns her attention to Dean, who is now half-hiding behind the doorway like he knew he was being herded. “Come on, little shadow. Let's give Nellie a few minutes.”
He groans dramatically but relents. “Okay, but I'm gonna sit next to her at breakfast!”
Eileen smirks. “We'll see what seats are open, bossy.”
The room feels still after they left, the air warm and faintly touched by the smell of something cooking. Nellie sits for another moment, letting the silence wash over her before she exhales and swings her legs off the side of the bed. Her bare feet first touch a soft rug, then a cooler hardwood floor. With one hand trailing along the edge of the bed for balance, she reaches out carefully in front of her, searching for the dresser Eileen had described the night before. Her fingers finally brush the wooden surface, and she lets out a small breath of relief. She moves slowly, gently patting the top until her hand lands on soft, neatly folded cotton fabric. A pair of sweatpants, she realizes, and a t-shirt. Her fingers brush against something else, smooth and cool plastic. A toothbrush. Then the faint crinkle of a travel-sized toothpaste tube. Her throat tightens with quiet appreciation. She hasn't even thought about asking. Eileen had just provided.
Tucking the clothes under one arm and holding the toothbrush in her hand, Nellie steps cautiously toward the door. The layout of the guest room is still unfamiliar, but she remembers her aunt's instructions from the night before: the hallway turned left, then the bathroom is the second door on the right. Her hand finds the doorframe first. Then the hallway wall. Her other hand still clutches the clothes as she moves slowly, listening for sounds of activity as a guide. She counts the doors carefully, trailing her fingertips along the wall, and when she reaches the second one, she presses her palm against it gently. The door creaks slightly as it opens.
Inside, the bathroom is quiet and still. She shuts the door behind her and feels around until she locates the sink. She runs her fingers along the edge until she finds the faucet, turning it on slowly. Cool water splashes over her hands, grounding her. She brushed her teeth slowly, her movements methodical. Then she changes, slipping out of the cozy pajamas and into the fresh, clean clothes. The fabric is soft and unfamiliar, but it is dry, warm, and smells faintly of lavender detergent. When she is done, she folds her used pajamas and holds them close to her chest, retracing her steps to the guest room. Her movements are still cautious, but slightly more confident now that she has made the trip once. Once she reaches the bed again, she sits down on the edge, fingers gripping the blanket beside her as she waits. She doesn't know where the kitchen is. She doesn't want to risk getting lost and turned around, or worse, making a mess. So, she sits quietly, listening for footsteps, for a voice to call her name. The wait isn't long before a light knock echoes on the doorframe.
“It's just me,” Eileen calls gently. “Ready for some breakfast?”
Nellie stands slowly, brushing her hands against her sweatpants. ““Yeah,” she replies, her voice still hoarse from sleep and the lingering damage to her lungs. “I think I'm ready.”
Eileen steps inside and offers her arm. Nellie reaches out, looping her hand around her aunt's elbow, her grip still a little tentative. They stroll down the hall together, the faint sounds of cooking growing louder: the sizzle of a skillet, the clink of plates, the low hum of music playing from a speaker in the background. It smells like eggs and toast, with maybe a hint of cinnamon and bacon.
As they enter the kitchen, Sam looks up from the stove and offers a small smile. “Hey, sleepyhead,” he says. “Perfect timing. We were just about to sit down.”
Eileen helps guide Nellie into a chair at the table. She can tell it is wood by the texture under her hand. Smooth and worn in, comfortable. Before she can say anything else, a small, familiar voice beside her pipes up, bright and excited.
“Nellie! You're next to me!” Dean exclaims, practically bouncing in his chair.
She turns toward the sound, startled at first, but her lips pull into a soft smile. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
He immediately launches into a rambling explanation of what he is eating: eggs, toast, “and this orange juice that's kind of weird but okay.” She nods along, her smile lingering as she listens. There is something sweet about his eagerness, the way he doesn't hesitate to talk to her like they are already friends. Her focus on Dean is broken by something soft brushing against her legs. She jumps slightly, causing the little boy to break out into giggles.
“It's just Miracle, silly!”
Nellie lets out a nervous laugh as she hears the dog plop down underneath the table, ready for Dean to leave any food unattended. A moment later, Eileen places a plate gently in front of her and touches her hand lightly to guide her fingers toward it.
“I made it simple,” she says. “Scrambled eggs, soft toast with a little butter, and some fruit. Nothing hard to navigate.”
“Thanks,” Nellie murmurs, surprised again by the thoughtfulness.
Sam carries over the last plate, setting it down across the table. “We weren't sure what you liked,” he adds as he sits, “but if there's anything you want—anything at all—we can swing by the store later. Just say the word.”
She sits quietly for a moment, absorbing it all. The warm smells, the quiet clatter of silverware, Dean's chatter, the patience in Eileen's voice, and the calm reassurance in Sam's. It is still so strange to be surrounded by kindness, to not be walking on eggshells or preparing for the next sharp word or blow. Part of her doesn't trust it. Another part, small but growing, wants to believe it can be real. She reaches for her fork, finding the edge of the plate, and begins to eat slowly and carefully.
“You guys don't have to…” she starts, unsure how to finish the thought.
Eileen sits down across from her. “We know,” she says gently. “But we want to.”
Nellie doesn't respond right away. She just nods, her throat too tight to speak. She isn't used to this kind of morning. But as Dean leans against her shoulder and babbles about the toy dinosaur he left on the couch, and Eileen quietly refills her glass, and Sam asks if she needs anything else, she lets herself take it in, one breath at a time. For now, it is enough.
Once breakfast wraps up and the kitchen starts humming with the soft clatter of dishes, Eileen returns to Nellie's side, giving her hand a gentle tap.
“Alright, sweetheart,” she says with a soft warmth in her voice. “We'll start your care plan in a bit. Nothing too intense, just what the hospital laid out. Breathing treatment, new gauze for your eyes, some ointment for your skin, and eyedrops. I'll walk you through each step, I promise.”
Nellie nods, her fingers still resting lightly on the table edge. “Okay,” she replies quietly. “Just… tell me what to do.”
“You've already done the hardest parts,” Eileen reassures her. “Now it's just healing.”
Sam catches Nellie's eye—well, the bandages over them—and gives her a half-smile. “We'll take it slow. And hey, we still owe you a grocery run. We'll stock up on whatever you want.”
She doesn't know how to respond to this new dynamic yet, so she nods again. A few minutes later, Eileen offers her arm, and Nellie stands up from the chair with careful movements. Dean is instantly at her side again, clutching a small plastic dinosaur and bouncing on his toes. Right on cue, the soft shuffle of claws signaling Miracle trotting over to join them, tail wagging, brushing gently against Nellie's legs like he is already part of her support team.
“This way,” Eileen says gently, adjusting her pace for Nellie's slower steps.
They move through the house together; Nellie with one hand lightly on Eileen's arm, the other brushing the wall for extra balance. The scent of the house is lived-in and cozy: clean laundry, cedar, and coffee lingering faintly. The kind of place that feels safe, without needing to prove it.
“This is the living room,” Eileen narrates as they enter the open space. “Couch on your left. Coffee table is right in front of it. TV's across the way. Sam's sworn it's for news and history docs, but Dean's the real boss of the remote.”
The little boy chimes in right on cue. “I watch space dragons! And sometimes I build rocket castles!” His voice is proud and energetic, and he is practically vibrating with excitement next to her.
“That sounds impressive,” Nellie chuckles, her lips quirking slightly. Her voice still holds caution, but it isn't closed off. There is a flicker of something lighter there.
As they continue through the house, Eileen points out the hallway closet, where the home office is, the stairs to the second floor, and the back door leading outside. Miracle stays close, occasionally brushing against the blind woman's legs like a soft reminder that he is there. Dean offered commentary constantly; he mentioned the room with his block towers, where Miracle had thrown up once, and which chair was the “thinking chair” (his words).
Through it all, Nellie absorbs more than just the house. She notices the tone of voice Eileen used with Dean: patient, kind, unhurried. The way the dog quietly adopts her presence. The easy way, Sam's voice calls out from the other room, checking in without hovering. It is a lot. Not in a bad way, but in a way that makes her heart feel too full and too unsure at the same time. This is what normal looks like. But she doesn't know how to step into it yet.
“You're doing great,” Eileen says softly, pausing with her at the bottom of the stairs. “I know it's overwhelming. Just take what you need at your pace, okay?”
Nellie nods once, her fingers tightening just a little on Eileen's sleeve. “I'll try.”
“That's all I'm asking.”
Dean tugs at Nellie's free hand. “Wanna come play dinos later? We could make a castle, and Miracle can be the dragon.”
The terrier gives a snort in reply, as if unimpressed by the casting choice.
Nellie lets out a tiny laugh, barely there, but real. “Maybe later,” she answers softly.
Dean cheers like she'd said yes and runs ahead to the couch with a flurry of giggles and squeaky socks, Miracle following after him, tail wagging.
Eileen turns back to her niece with a smile. “Whenever you're ready, we'll get started on your care routine.”
Nellie nods, still quietly grounded by the moment. She doesn't say it out loud, but something about the energy here —the warmth, the patience, the way people didn't seem to want anything from her except for her to be okay —is beginning to sink in. And even if she can't see it yet, she is starting to feel what home could be.
Back in the guest room, the energy settles into something quieter and more contemplative. Sam has gently coaxed Dean into staying in the living room, promising him they'd build a block tower as tall as the couch. The little boy's disappointed sigh is short-lived, quickly replaced with excitement at the prospect of more playtime with his dad. Once they are gone, Eileen closes the door softly behind her, leaving just her and Nellie.
“Okay,” the older woman says gently, signing the word out of habit even though she knows Nellie can't see it. “Let's take care of you, sweetheart. Just like the hospital showed us.”
Nellie sits obediently on the edge of the bed; her hands folded lightly in her lap. She still doesn't speak much, but her posture betrays the tightness in her shoulders, the quiet unease in her already shaky breaths. Eileen notices how the young woman's fingers occasionally twitch, like she isn't sure whether to brace or withdraw. It is a silence Eileen recognizes: someone waiting for pain, even when none is coming.
“We'll go slow,” she reassures her, setting the small care basket down on the bedside table. “And I'll tell you what I'm doing before I do it. You're in control, okay?”
Nellie gives a slight nod in response.
“Let's start with your eyes,” Eileen says. She crouched in front of Nellie, her fingers brushing back loose strands of hair from the gauze-wrapped blindfold. “I'm going to take this off. You'll feel a little air, but it's just me.”
She carefully unwraps the gauze, revealing the eyes beneath. They have a slightly cloudy tint, a pale, barely-there fog milking over the once vibrant green iris. Eileen tries not to react, but the sight tugs at her chest. Not in horror, but in heartbreak. Those are young eyes. Too young to have seen what they had, and even now, they still don't see at all.
Nellie tilts her head slightly. “They look weird, don't they?”
“No,” Eileen answers immediately, voice firm. “They look like they're healing.”
She reaches for a warm, damp washcloth and gently cleans around the girl's eyes, blotting with a towel after each pass. The skin beneath is tender, slightly red, but not angry. Carefully, she holds the eyedrop bottle over each eye, letting the prescribed medication fall in. Nellie flinches but doesn't pull away.
“Almost done with your eyes,” Eileen says. She pauses, brushing a few stray strands from her niece's face. “Would you like me to braid your hair back before we wrap them again? It might be more comfortable.”
There is a long pause. Then, a quiet, “Okay.”
It isn't much. But it is permission. Eileen, behind her, begins gently gathering the dull, dirty blonde strands into sections. Her fingers are deft, practiced, having done this before, on herself and on other girls she'd cared for. But Nellie's hair is different. It is heavy with unspoken stories. And as she works, she can't help but notice something familiar in the curve of her jaw, in the tilt of her head. A ghost of Dean's smile lived there, softened and buried beneath years of hardship. The resemblance takes her breath away for a moment, a bittersweet ache rising in her throat. Dean, you'd have loved her, she thought. She's got your fire, even if she doesn't know it yet. Once the braid is secured, Eileen gently wraps the fresh gauze around Nellie's eyes, tying it at the back and tucking the ends in neatly.
“Eyes are done,” she tells her softly. “You're doing great.”
Next comes the ointment. Eileen rolls up Nellie's sleeves and dabs the cream onto the healing burns, small patches of angry skin along her arms and neck. Nellie winces once but doesn't complain. The older woman murmurs apologies with each touch, wiping her hands clean between applications. Finally, she sets up the nebulizer for the breathing treatment. She helps Nellie settle back against the pillows and hands her the face mask.
“This will take a little while,” she explains. “The medication might make you sleepy. That's okay. You've earned a nap.”
Nellie nods again, obedient, quiet. As the soft hum of the machine starts up, she holds the face mask over her mouth and nose, inhaling the medicated mist that works its way into her lungs. Eileen watches her for a long moment. This girl had no idea what strength she carries. Not just in surviving the fire, or escaping her own mother, but in this, in letting someone take care of her. That kind of trust is a battle all its own.
“You're safe here,” Eileen whispers, brushing a hand lightly over the young woman's braid. “You don't have to do this alone anymore.”
For the first time since she entered their home, Eileen sees Nellie's shoulders relax just a little, like maybe she believes it. Once the breathing treatment finishes, Eileen gently takes the nebulizer mask from Nellie's hands and sets it aside. The girl is reclining against the pillows, her breathing slower now, softer. The medication has done its job, coaxing her lungs into a gentler rhythm.
“You good?” Eileen asks quietly.
She nods, her voice barely a whisper. “Yeah… just tired.”
“Then rest,” Eileen says, pulling the blanket up over her niece's legs. She gives her shoulder a final soft touch before she stands. “You're safe here, Nellie. We'll take it one step at a time.”
She turns toward the door, moving slowly, letting the quiet linger.
“Eileen?” Nellie's voice stops her.
She turns her head. “Yeah?”
“Thank you,” the girl says, and this time, the words aren't faint. They are full, laced with something that trembles on the edge of tears. “I… I don't really know how to say it right. Just… thank you.”
Eileen's eyes soften. Her hand resting briefly on the doorframe, touched by the weight behind those two simple words.
“You don't have to say it right,” she replies, her voice thick with warmth. “You said it perfectly.”
She gives her one last glance, then quietly closes the door to let her rest. In the living room, Sam is sitting cross-legged on the rug, watching as Dean constructs a wildly unstable tower of blocks that leans like it has a death wish. Miracle lies nearby, tail twitching as he dozes. Sam looks up as Eileen enters, arching a brow.
“How'd it go?” he asks.
She offers a small smile and nods. “Good. She's easier to wrangle than Dean, for sure.”
His relief is evident in the way his shoulders drop. He reaches for her hand as she sits beside him on the couch. Dean babbles excitedly about his “castle,” completely oblivious to the weight of the adult conversation circling above him.
Eileen turns her attention to Sam, her fingers brushing lightly against his as she signs, “She let me braid her hair.”
Sam blinks, surprised by the detail.
“I don't think anyone's ever done that for her,” she continues, fingers moving a little slower now, more thoughtful. “She didn't know how to react to it. She looked… unsure. Like she thought it was a trick or a test she might fail.”
His throat tightens.
“It made my heart hurt. No one should have to second-guess that kind of kindness.” She pauses, then adds with more weight, “And when I saw her face, just for a moment—with her hair pulled back and her expression soft—I saw him, Sam. I saw Dean in her.”
Sam looks away for a moment, swallowing hard. It is something he had seen several times before, of course. In glimpses, in mannerisms. But hearing it from Eileen, someone who had never known Dean the way he had, but still saw echoes of him in Nellie, hits differently.
Eileen places a hand on his arm. “She's your family,” she says out loud. “And now, she's mine, too.”
He looks back at her, his voice low. “You think he would've been proud of her?”
She doesn't hesitate. “Absolutely. And I think… wherever he is, he knows she's finally safe.”
Sam nods, his eyes flicking toward the hallway that leads to the guest room. “Let's make sure it stays that way.”
• • •
Nellie wakes slowly, her breathing still a little tight in her chest. The room is quiet, dim, but not uncomfortable. She lies there for a few moments, listening to the soft creaks in the house, birds outside the window, and the faint murmur of voices somewhere deeper in the house. She sits up and lets her feet touch the floor, hands brushing over the soft fabric of the comforter as she tries to orient herself. She doesn't want to lie here and spiral again. She wants to move, just a little. To do something.
She remembers the layout from earlier. Eileen had described it clearly. If she counts her steps and keeps her hand near the wall, she can make it to the hallway, then right, past the bathroom, and into the office. She moves slowly, one hand trailing along the wall until the doorframe taps her knuckles.
She knocks lightly. “Sam?”
There is a pause, then the familiar voice from inside. “Hey, come on in. You okay?”
Nellie steps in with slow, cautious steps. Sam has already gotten up and crosses the room to gently take her arm, guiding her to the chair across from his desk.
“I'm fine,” she murmurs, though her voice is tired. “Just… didn't want to lie there.”
He sits back in his chair, giving her time. “Want some water or anything?”
She shakes her head. “No. I just… I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yeah,” of course.”
She takes a breath, folding her hands in her lap. “What's going to happen to me? After I get my sight back, I mean.”
Sam's brow furrows slightly. “Well, hopefully by then you'll feel more settled. You'll be healing, and we'll help you figure out what you want.”
Nellie's lips twitch, like she almost smiles, but it fades. “That's the thing. I don't know what I want. I've never had the chance to figure that out. And… I don't want to go back to that house. There's nothing there. Not really.”
“You don't have to,” he replies gently. “You're not going back there.”
She nods, swallowing hard. “But I don't have anywhere else. I know I'm staying here now, but… I'm not going to stay with you forever, right? I mean, once I can see again and take care of myself… you'll want your house back. Your family.”
Sam sits forward slightly, reading between the lines. The way she says, “your house,” like she isn't part of it. Like she never could be.
“You think we're just… keeping you here until it's convenient to send you away?”
Nellie doesn't answer right away. She just gives a half-shrug, her chin dipping slightly. “I don't know. Maybe. I don't want to be a burden. And I don't know how to pay you and Eileen back for any of this.”
Sam's heart clenches. “Nellie… you don't owe us anything. This isn't a transaction. You're not some project we're working on. You're family.”
She is quiet, but her fingers curl tightly in her lap. “Then why are you doing this? Really?” Her voice wavers. “Is it because of him? Because of Dean? Do you feel guilty because I'm his daughter?”
That lands harder than Sam expects.
He takes a long breath and leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. “You know… I've thought about that. A lot. I asked myself if that's why I ran back into that motel. If that's why I'm doing this. But the truth is… I think I would've done the same even if you weren't Dean's kid.”
She turns slightly toward the sound of his voice, her expression unreadable behind the blindfold.
“You've been through hell, Nellie. And you didn't deserve any of it. But you didn't let it swallow you. You saved my life. You tried to save Roger. And even after everything Eleanor put you through… you still stood up to her. That wasn't about obligation. That was you. That strength? That's yours.” He leans back, voice softening. “I do see your dad in you. Sometimes in the way you talk. Sometimes in the attitude. But I also see you. And I like who I'm getting to know. And you may not believe it yet, but you're allowed to stay here. As long as you need. No ticking clock.”
Her head dips, and for a moment, Sam thinks she is going to deflect like she usually does.
But instead, she whispers, “I've never been told that before. That I could stay.”
Sam's throat tightens. He reaches over and gently places his hand over hers. “Well, you can. And you will. You're safe here, Nellie. And you're not alone anymore. That's not changing.”
For a long moment, there is only silence between them. Then Nellie nods slowly, holding onto his hand just a second longer than necessary.
“Thanks, Sam.”
He smiles faintly. “Anytime, kiddo.”
The silence between them stretches for a moment, but it isn't heavy. She sits still on the edge of the chair, her posture tentative, but her head tilts slightly toward her uncle, listening.
She speaks softly. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Yeah. Anything.”
“It's about him. My dad.” She hesitates. “Dean.”
His breath catches a little in his chest, but he nods. “Of course.”
“I know you told me he was a firefighter. Back when we first met. I know why you said that. I wasn't ready to hear the truth. But I think… I am now. I want to know more. What he really did as a hunter. What kind of man he really was.”
Sam lets out a slow breath, fingers lacing in front of him as he leans forward in his desk chair. “Alright,” he says. “Then I'll tell you everything. Not just the good parts.”
Nellie doesn't respond; she simply nods, still as stone, her bandaged eyes turning toward him like a question left unanswered for years.
Sam's throat tightens a bit before he finds the words. “Our family didn't exactly choose this life. It chose us. When Dean and I were just kids—real young—our mom, Mary… she was killed by a demon.”
Nellie's brow furrows slightly, and Sam watches the realization ripple across her face. She's heard of monsters now. Hell, she lived with one. She believes him. But this still hurts to say.
“She died in the nursery,” he continues. “Burned alive on the ceiling. Sound familiar?”
Nellie's lips purse, her expression pained.
Sam shakes his head grimly. “I was just six months old when it happened. Dean was four. Our dad… he couldn't handle it. He became obsessed with finding out what killed her. That's how he got pulled into the hunting world. Revenge.” He leans back slightly. “We got dragged in, too. He trained us. Took us from town to town, job to job. Hunting. No roots. No normal life. Dean… he adapted fast. He was brave. Reckless, sometimes. Loyal, to a fault. And yeah, he could be loud, stubborn, impossible to reason with, but he loved fiercely. He lived for protecting the people he cared about.” He pauses, letting the weight of that settle. “It cost him a lot.”
Nellie's fingers curl lightly in her lap. She is still silent, but her throat bobs in a silent swallow. Sam can tell she is processing, maybe even trying to match the man she'd never met with the scraps of stories she'd been given.
“Did he ever want out?” she asks quietly. “The hunting life?”
“All the time,” he admits. “Even if he didn't say it. He'd joke about it or pretend like he didn't care, but I knew. He wanted peace. A house. A family. Something permanent. But he didn't think he'd ever get it. Not with how dangerous our lives were.”
He studies her face, her quiet features knit with thought. Even blindfolded, she resembles Dean when she tries not to let people see her emotions too plainly.
“I wish I could've met him,” she whispers.
“In a way, you are,” Sam says, his voice thick. “Every day, in little ways. The more I get to know you, the more I see him in you. The good parts. The parts that never got broken by all the darkness he saw.”
Her fingers flex against her knees. He can see the way the words affect her. Not just hearing about Dean, but feeling that tie, that truth that she belongs somewhere, even if she doesn't know what that means yet.
After a long moment, she finally speaks. “Tell me more. About the two of you. Hunting. What did you faced. I want to know the truth. I want to know him. The man who lived in the dark to keep others safe.”
Sam's mouth tugs into a small, wistful smile.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Then let me tell you about a hunt we went on together at the end of my college days. Just me and Dean. A Woman in White. In Jericho, California. He picked me up from Stanford and dragged me into it—and, well, nothing was the same after that.”
And so, he tells her. Quietly, patiently. Piece by piece. Story by story. And Nellie listens.
The sun has shifted across the sky by the time the quiet knock and creak of the office door interrupts the storytelling. Sam looks up from his desk to see his son stride in with his usual energy, messy-haired, wearing one of his favorite superhero shirts, and clutching a stuffed dragon in one hand. His face lights up the moment he sees Nellie seated nearby.
“There you are!” he announces with delight, as if he'd been searching the whole house for her.
Sam smiles. “Hey, buddy. What's up?”
Dean points at the blind woman with the dragon. “You promised you'd play with me!”
Nellie, startled at first, tilts her head in his direction. “Play?”
“Yeah! Come on! I got blocks and dragons, and the pillow fort's still up!”
Sam chuckles under his breath, rising slightly from his chair. “Dean, remember, Nellie's still healing. She doesn't have to play if she doesn't want to, okay?”
But before he can say more, she gently raises a hand. “It's okay. I can play for a little bit.”
He hesitates. “Are you sure? You've had a long day.”
“I'm sure,” she replies softly, turning her head toward where she heard the little boy's voice. “I think I could use a break from thinking for a while.”
Dean lets out an excited squeal and darts to her side, grabbing her hand and tugging on it. “C'mon! I'll show you!”
Sam quickly moves to help steady her, gently placing her other hand on his son's shoulder. “Go slow, bud,” he says carefully. “She can't see you, remember? You have to be her eyes.”
Dean takes the instruction very seriously—too seriously for a four-year-old, perhaps. “Okay! Nellie, there's a step—wait, no—just a floor. But watch out for the rug! It's very… um... ruggy.”
She stifles a laugh, one of the first honest ones Sam has heard from her. She grips the boy's tiny shoulder with care. “Lead the way, dragon tamer.”
Sam stands by the doorway as they shuffle out of the room, Dean confidently narrating every bit of the hallway terrain like a tiny adventurer, and Nellie quietly smiles as she lets him guide her, however awkward the effort may be. It is imperfect. Clumsy. But it is something. And for the first time in a long while, he sees a sliver of peace begin to settle into Nellie's shoulders. She is letting herself be part of something. And he silently hopes, with everything in him, that she'd realize she doesn't have to earn it. She already belongs in their little family.
Dean now grabs Nellie's hand in his small one, clumsy but eager, as he leads her through the house, offering excited narration with each step.
“Okay, this way! It's not far. Just follow my voice.”
She lets him guide her, his little fingers wrapping around hers. It isn't a strong grip, more like a thread pulling her forward. She moves carefully, uncertain, her free hand grazing the wall as she follows his bouncing steps and rapid chatter. She isn't used to this, to children, to unfiltered joy, to someone wanting her to follow them without fear or suspicion. She hadn't grown up around younger siblings. Her life had been marked by silence and survival, not make-believe and laughter.
They enter the living room, and the boy stops proudly. “This is the dragon fort! Don't step on the floor there—that's lava! It's very hot. Mommy said not to touch the stove, so I think it's the same.”
Nellie pauses, trying to imagine the world he describes. She can feel the pillows under her fingers, soft and lumpy, and the warmth of sunlight streaming through the window. Somewhere nearby, Miracle's collar jingles faintly.
“Lava. Got it,” she says, voice tentative. “What's our mission?”
Dean gasps dramatically. “We have to rescue the teddy bear prince! He's stuck at the top of the pillow tower, guarded by a sleepy dragon, Miracle!”
The dog, in turn, lets out a faint snore, curled up nearby in his usual spot.
Nellie kneels slowly, letting her hand find the nearest pillow as she lowers herself to the floor. She feels awkward, unsure how to move or what to do. But Dean's excitement is contagious, and soon, he is handing her the teddy bear with great ceremony.
“You're the brave knight,” he declares. “You fly him to safety!”
“I... fly him?” she asks, uncertain.
He doesn't miss a beat. “Like this!” He makes whooshing noises and flails his arms.
She smiles faintly, trying to copy the sound, lifting the stuffed bear and swaying it gently. She isn't sure if she is doing it right, but Dean beams.
“Yeah! Just like that!”
Her smile lingers this time, still small, but genuine. She relaxes a little more, letting herself be drawn into his world. It's strange and new, but oddly comforting. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed being around innocence. Around someone who wasn't trying to control her, or question her, or hurt her.
Sam and Eileen stand quietly in the hallway, watching from just out of view. Her hand brushes against his arm.
“She's learning how to just be,” she signs. “Dean's helping her do that.”
He nods, watching as his niece let out a breathy laugh, soft and startled, when Dean tries to teach her the magic spell for dragon-sleep.
“She didn't get to be a kid,” he murmurs. “But maybe now she can learn what it's like to be part of something... real.”
They watch as Nellie carefully pretends to fight off the invisible dragon, her motions still hesitant but growing bolder with each pass.
Dean claps. “You saved him! You saved the teddy bear prince!”
Her lips quirk upward as she cradles the bear in her lap. “I guess that makes me a hero,” she says quietly.
And for the first time in a long while, she believes it might be true.
• • •
The house is quiet after dinner, the hum of the dishwasher the only sound echoing faintly down the hall. Sam had taken Dean to the living room to wind down with cartoons, Miracle snoring softly at their feet. Down the hallway, the guest bathroom light is warm and soft as Eileen gently guides Nellie inside.
“Let's get your hair washed,” Eileen says, her voice gentle as always, hands guiding the girl's elbow. “You'll sit right on the edge of the tub, and I'll do the rest. That way, you don't have to worry about the soap getting near your eyes.”
Nellie nods mutely, unsure how to respond. The nerves in her chest flickered like exposed wires. This isn't just new; it's foreign. For one, she is capable of doing it on her own, but even the mere thought of doing it is exhausting. She doesn't know if it's just physical or mental tiredness, maybe both.
On the other hand, no one has ever offered something like this before. She'd washed her own hair since she was strong enough to lift her arms. Eleanor had never touched her hair except in anger or to criticize it. Every brushing, every braid, every rinse had been her own doing; haphazard, rushed, functional. Now here she is, sitting on the edge of a bathtub in a stranger's—no, her family's—home, as her aunt gently undoes the blindfold over her eyes. Her fingers are deft but careful, her silence respectful. Nellie's visionless eyes remain closed, but she can feel the cooler air brush her eyelids as the gauze comes away.
Eileen had seen that look before, in patients, in trauma survivors. That flicker of hesitation born not of stubbornness but confusion. Like the brain can't quite reconcile kindness as real. Once the gauze had slipped away, she catches her breath, not because the damage is grotesque, but because of the way Nellie flinches ever so slightly, as if she expects pain or judgment. But Eileen doesn't stare. She just sees the girl beneath it all.
“I'm going to take out your braid, then I'll wet your hair,” she says.
She gently unravels the loose plait she'd tied that morning. Her fingers moving carefully, making sure not to tug or cause discomfort. The hair is a little tangled, but manageable. Eileen's movements are slow and methodical, not just to be gentle, but because she knows the young woman isn't accustomed to this. And that realization hurts. She can feel it in Nellie's posture, in how she holds herself stiffly. Like she is afraid she is doing something wrong. Like she doesn't know how to relax under someone else's care. God, how had this girl lived so long without someone just brushing her hair? Eileen had no children of her own before Dean, but she knows what love looked like; what neglect looked like, too. And this young woman has clearly lived without softness for far too long.
“You're doing great,” she says softly, reaching for the pitcher of warm water.
Nellie murmurs a tiny “thanks,” so quiet Eileen almost doesn't catch it.
She tilts Nellie's head slightly back, placing a soft towel beneath her neck, and slowly begins pouring warm water through her hair. The water streams down gently, carrying away the day's weight. Eileen adds a bit of shampoo, massaging it gently into the scalp. She notices Nellie's breathing hitch for just a second. Almost like she isn't sure what is happening, or why it didn't hurt. No one's ever done this for her, Eileen thinks, heart aching as she works. She probably had to grow up too fast, take care of herself too young.
Nellie doesn't speak, but her body slowly starts to ease. Her shoulders lower slightly, the rigid line of her spine slackening just a bit. Eileen also doesn't say much. Sometimes silence is safer than words. She rinses the shampoo, conditions, and then uses a towel to gently dry the strands. Not rushing. Not hurrying her out of the moment. Just being present.
As she sets the towel aside, she says quietly, “I can rewrap your eyes in a moment. But if you want, I can braid your hair again. It might make the bandage more comfortable.”
There is a pause. Then Nellie replies, more hesitant than unsure, “Okay.”
So, Eileen begins weaving the hair again, slowly, loosely, and with great care. She feels Nellie breathe, almost in rhythm with the pattern of her fingers. It is one of the smallest, simplest acts of care Eileen can offer, but to Nellie, it feels like something sacred. Her face is turned slightly downward, but Eileen sees the tension gathering in her lips, in the way she blinked rapidly. She doesn't say anything. She just braids.
As she finishes, tying the hair gently with a soft band and reaching for the fresh gauze, her thoughts turn to the man Nellie had never truly known: Dean. She's got your stubbornness, she thinks, but she's got your quiet heart too. As she smooths the braid, she notices something. A single tear slipping down Nellie's cheek, trailing towards her chin. She doesn't sob, doesn't break down, but Eileen sees it. She squeezes her shoulder lightly, letting her know it is okay to feel it, even if she isn't ready to say it out loud.
“Let's put the drops in your eyes and get them covered again, and then you can get to bed,” she says after a beat, her tone still warm.
She grabs the drops from the bathroom counter, applies them quickly, finishing up by rewrapping the gauze, her motions efficient but gentle. Nellie sits still, not resisting, just breathing through the quiet overwhelm still pressing at her ribs.
When it is done, the older woman stands and helps the girl to her feet. “You want to go lie down?”
Nellie responds with a small nod, her voice barely audible. “Yeah.”
As they walk slowly back to the guest room, she can't quite find the words to explain how much that moment means. But something in her posture has softened, just a little. She still feels the unfamiliar ache of being cared for. But it is no longer unbearable. Eileen hands her the folded pajamas, a slight warmth still present from the wash earlier that day. As Nellie changes into them, the other woman pulls the sheets back on the bed, fluffing the pillows. She has just unlatched the nebulizer kit and is beginning to prepare the saline solution when the door creaks open with a little grunt of effort. A tousle-haired Dean stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other clutching his ever-present stuffed dragon. His eyes go wide as he spots his mother with the machine and tubing, curiosity overtaking the sleep still clinging to his limbs.
“Mommy, what's that?” he whispers loudly.
Eileen smiles softly. “It helps Nellie breathe better.”
Dean's face twists into a serious expression, as serious as a four-year-old can muster. “Is she okay?”
“She will be,” Eileen assures him, crouching to meet his eyes. “Do you want to say goodnight before I put you to bed?”
He nods eagerly.
She leads him over gently, keeping her hand on his shoulder. “Be soft, remember.”
He toddles to the edge of the bed and rests his tiny hand on Nellie's arm. “Goodnight, Nellie,” he says sweetly. “Don't be sick anymore, okay?”
Nellie gives a small smile. “I'll do my best.”
Dean grins, satisfied, and leans in to give her a very light hug, more of a soft lean into her side than anything else. “You're nice,” he adds with a decisive nod.
Before she can find the words to respond, Eileen swoops in with perfect mom timing and scoops the boy up into her arms. “Okay, bedtime, explorer. Say bye.”
“Byeee,” he chirps, waving over Eileen's shoulder as they disappear down the hallway.
Sam steps in as they leave, catching the tail end of the exchange. He cracks the door closed behind him gently, and the room quiets again.
“Guess I'm up,” he says, offering a faint smile even though Nellie can't see it.
She nods, her voice soft. “He's sweet.”
“He is,” he agrees as he moves beside the bed, helping her sit up with a few careful pillows. “Wired like his uncle. Hopefully, he doesn't start playing with salt circles.”
Nellie gives a quiet laugh, small and exhausted. Sam watches her closely as he gently fits the mask over her mouth and nose, then starts the machine. The soft hum fills the space with a soothing rhythm. He sits beside her as the medication mists through the tubing. She breathes it in, her shoulders slowly easing beneath the blanket.
He can see the fatigue in her frame, but also something else, something more profound. A kind of hesitation that doesn't belong in someone so young. It is the way her hands twist nervously in her lap when he adjusts her blanket, the way she hesitates before leaning back into the pillows, like she isn't sure she is allowed to be taken care of. It hits him, suddenly and heavily. This isn't just a girl recovering from trauma. This is a girl who had barely been given the space to be cared for in her life at all. Maybe Roger had tried in his own way, back when he was still married to Eleanor, but Sam knew from what little Nellie had shared: it hadn't been consistent. It hadn't been safe. He can feel it now in her silence, in the way she tenses when kindness is offered and seems unsure whether to lean into it or run from it.
When the treatment ends, Sam turns off the machine and gently removes the mask. He helps her lie back against the pillows, pulling the blankets over her carefully. Nellie didn't speak for a moment. Her hands twist again under the edge of the blanket.
“You okay?” he asks gently.
She nods once. “Just tired.”
He nods back, letting the silence settle, and then places a warm hand on her shoulder.
“You did good today. Proud of you.”
Her breath catches, just barely. Sam sees the way her chin trembles and how her head turns just slightly toward the sound of his voice. Like she is memorizing the warmth behind the words. And he realizes, with a quiet ache in his chest, that no one had ever tucked this girl in. Not like this. Not with gentle hands and a voice that means it. Sure, she is a young woman, but Sam's fatherly instincts see her as the young girl he or Dean never got to meet.
He stands and crosses to the door, turning the knob softly before pausing. “We're glad you're here, Nellie,” he says. “Sleep well.”
The door shuts with a soft click, leaving her in the still hush of the room. And Sam stands in the hallway for a long moment, staring at the floor, thinking about his brother. Dean should have been here for this. But he isn't. So Sam will be.
• • •
Nellie stirs slowly beneath the blanket, the weight of sleep still pressing against her body like a second skin. Her lungs tighten slightly with the first inhale, reminding her they still aren't what they used to be. The world around her is muffled in that hazy way mornings often are, but even with her vision absent, she can feel a shift in the room. A presence. The soft thump-thump of a tail brushing the wooden floor. Miracle. She hadn't heard him come in, but somehow, she isn't surprised. He is quiet like that, present without demanding anything. Gentle in ways that don't feel like pity. Another sound, a breathy little huff, and the mattress dips slightly. She feels the warmth of fur brush against her arm as the terrier leaps up and curls himself against her side, his chin nudging under her hand with an almost practiced ease. Nellie doesn't move for a few seconds. Just lies there and lets it happen. Then her fingers curl into his coat, brushing through the wiry fur. Miracle let out a small sigh and leaned in closer, warm and still. He doesn't squirm or fidget. He just stays.
Her throat tightens. It comes suddenly; too suddenly. That sharp weight in her chest. Not the fire-burned lungs or the phantom ache of Eleanor's voice echoing in her head. No, this is something else. A wave of emotion swells fast, catching her off guard. She'd spent most of her life walking on eggshells, calculating every word, every gesture, to avoid punishment. To stay unnoticed. That was survival. And now… Now, Eileen is washing her hair, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Sam tells her goodnight, calling her kiddo, letting her rest without expecting anything in return. A little boy with chubby hands and a voice full of wonder, sitting next to her, like she belongs there. She doesn't know how to hold this kind of softness. Her body doesn't know how to receive care without shrinking from it. Her heart doesn't know how to believe it is real. But it is. And it makes everything ache more. Her fingers curl tighter into Miracle's fur, her lips trembling.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice raw, uncertain.
The tears come quietly, silent rivulets damping the gauze, a few slipping from beneath it. She doesn't sob. Doesn't shake. Just cries in that small, internal way she'd gotten used to over the years, like her body knew how to be invisible even in her grief.
Miracle doesn't move. And somehow, that makes her cry harder. She lets her head rest slightly toward him, clutching the warmth beside her like it is the only thing anchoring her. Her thoughts swirled with pieces of the day before—Sam's firm but gentle tone, Eileen's capable hands, Dean's endless imagination, the way he'd tugged on her fingers like she was his to trust. This is a new world.
The quiet doesn't last long. Nellie hears the hurried patter of small feet in the hallway just before the door bursts open.
“I found you!” Dean announces triumphantly, his voice full of glee and not a lick of volume control.
Miracle perks up but doesn't move, his tail giving one cautious wag as the little boy pads in. Nellie smiles softly despite herself; she can practically feel the joy radiating off the kid like sunshine. But she also feels the dog's body shift ever so slightly, his posture alert but not aggressive. He moves, not away from her, but between her and Dean Jr., as if he is instinctively drawing a line: easy, small human, she's still fragile. She reaches out and rests her hand on Miracle's side, grounding herself.
Dean slows, his feet shuffling on the floor. “Hi,” Nellie,” he says, quieter now, sensing—however a toddler does—that something is different this morning. “Are you okay?”
She isn't sure how to answer that. The tears on her cheeks have dried in streaks, still tucked under the gauze that wraps her eyes. She shifts slightly in the bed, adjusting Miracle with her. “I'm alright,” she murmurs, her voice still a little thick. “Just waking up still.”
The boy must have come closer, because the next thing she feels is a warm little hand patting her forearm.
“My mommy says snuggles help when you're sad,” he tells her very seriously. “They always make me feel better.”
Nellie's throat closes up again, but this time with something gentler.
“Is it okay if I snuggle?” he asks, and the innocence in his question, his waiting for permission, strikes something deep in her.
She nods. “Yeah, it's okay.”
The mattress shifts again, bouncing slightly under his tiny weight as he climbs up with the awkward determination only toddlers have. Miracle huffs a quiet dog sigh but doesn't move; he simply adjusts his position so that Dean can wedge in next to Nellie without much fuss. The terrier keeps his body pressed lightly against her leg, as if still on duty. The boy curls up beside her, his head resting near her shoulder. One of his little arms stretches across her stomach, like he meant to hug her, but got sleepy halfway through.
“You're comfy,” he whispers.
“You too,” Nellie replies softly.
They lie there like that for a few minutes, the room filling with nothing but the hum of morning and the occasional sniffle from Dean as he adjusts, breathing calmly and even. Nellie lets her fingers trail through Miracle's fur again, her other hand resting gently over Dean's. Protected. That's what she feels. Not just watched or helped, but protected. It is foreign. And wonderful.
There is a small knock on the door. Sam didn't mean to eavesdrop. He was just heading down the hallway from the home office when he passed Nellie's door, ajar by a crack. Dean's voice filters out through the gap, bright and animated in that way only toddlers could manage first thing in the morning.
“…and I got some juice, but it spilled a little, but Mommy said it was okay,” the little boy babbles, his words running together in a stream of pure morning energy.
Sam nudges the door open gently with his knuckles after the knock, a half-smile tugging at his lips. Inside, the soft light of early morning filtered through the curtains, casting a warm hue over the small cluster on the bed. Miracle is lying in a semi-protective sprawl across Nellie's legs, his head resting on her thigh. Dean is curled at her side like a little barnacle, his tiny hand loosely holding onto her forearm, still mid-story about a dream involving flying dinosaurs and cookies.
And Nellie… Nellie looks peaceful. Tired, but peaceful. There is still a tension in her shoulders, a kind of quiet hesitancy that Sam recognizes, but her lips are curled into a faint smile, and she leans just slightly toward the sound of Dean's voice, as if she is letting herself be pulled into his orbit.
He leans on the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “Well, I was wondering where you ran off to, bud,” he says gently.
The little boy pops his head up from Nellie's side, grinning widely. “She was sad, Daddy. So I gave her snuggles.”
Miracle gives a soft chuff in response, tail thumping twice.
Nellie turns her head toward Sam's voice, her expression still unreadable behind the gauze, but the corner of her mouth tugs upwards again. “He's got good timing,” she says softly.
Sam chuckles. “That he does.” He crosses the room and ruffles Dean's hair. “Alright, pal. Let's let Nellie get ready for the day.”
“But I wanna stay,” Dean protests, his arms tightening around Nellie like a baby koala.
Sam crouches beside the bed, giving his son a patient look. “You can hang out again later. Right now, she needs a little space to wake up, okay?”
The boy pouts but nods, then turns to Nellie and says, “You're sitting with me at breakfast. Don't forget.”
“I won't,” she replies, surprising herself with how certain her voice sounds.
He clambers off the bed with Miracle hopping down beside him.
Sam gently rests a hand on Nellie's arm before following his son. “We'll be in the kitchen when you're ready.”
As he steps back into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind him, he can't help but glance back one last time. It isn't much, but it is something. A morning that begins with softness instead of fear. A small pocket of calm in the aftermath of the storm.
Nellie takes her time getting dressed, her hands brushing over the soft cotton of the clean clothes Eileen had laid out. She moves a little slower this morning, her breathing still heavy from the night before, but steadier than yesterday. She finds her way to the hallway with quiet focus, one hand trailing the wall. She pauses only once, brow furrowing as she tries to recall which direction the kitchen is. She takes a breath, counts her steps, then turns left.
A familiar scent meets her nose before she even makes it to the room: pancakes, eggs, coffee. Warm and earthy, like the house itself. She crosses the threshold with hesitant steps.
Dean's voice shoots up instantly. “She found it! Mommy, she found it!”
Nellie is startled slightly at the sudden sound, but a smile tugs at her lips. Miracle's nails click on the tile as he trots to her side, nudging his head against her leg like a soft guide. She bends down and lets her hand rest on his head gratefully.
Sam stands by the stove, flipping pancakes. “Morning, Nellie,” he greets, his voice low and easy. “Good job finding your way down.”
“Thanks,” she murmurs, pride warming her chest.
Eileen meets her halfway through the room, gently touching her arm. “Come sit. Dean made sure your chair was next to his.”
“It's true,” he pipes up from his booster seat, kicking his legs under the table. “And Miracle's already under it. He's waitin' for crumbs.”
Sure enough, the terrier has resumed his post beneath Nellie's seat, tail swishing as she sat.
Eileen sets a plate in front of her. “Pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fruit. Easy textures. There's syrup, too, if you'd like.”
“Thank you,” Nellie responds, her voice soft.
As the family begins to eat, Eileen takes a sip of her coffee and casually asks, “I'm going grocery shopping later. Anything you'd like in the house, Nellie?”
Nellie stills, fork pausing mid-air. The question shouldn't have hit as hard as it did. It is just groceries. Food. A typical household conversation. But it takes her a second too long to answer.
“I, um… I don't know,” she says truthfully, lowering her fork slowly. “I mean… I like certain things. I just… didn't really get to choose what was in the house. Not before.”
Silence settles for just a beat.
Then Eileen's voice comes gently, reassuringly. “That's okay. We'll figure it out together. If anything comes to mind, just let me know.”
“Or we can make a list!” Dean chimes in. “I make lists with crayons!”
Nellie smiles faintly, feeling the corners of her walls bend a little more. “That sounds good.”
Sam glances across the table at her, a quiet pride flickering in his expression. She is talking more today. Making space for herself, even if just a little. And from under the table, Miracle lets out a satisfied huff, like he agrees.
After breakfast, with plates cleared and Dean racing Miracle around the dining room like a sugar-fueled comet, Sam gently touches Nellie's shoulder.
“You want some fresh air?” he asks. “The back porch gets a bit of sunlight in the mornings. Might be good for you to rest out there for a bit.”
She bobs her head, her fingers tightening slightly around the edge of her chair. “Okay… yeah, that sounds nice.”
He guides her gently through the living room and toward the back door, Miracle now padding faithfully beside them. The moment the screen door opens, the sounds of the outside world filter in birdsong, the faint buzz of insects, the creak of trees in a light breeze. He helps her settle into a cushioned chair; a soft blanket tucked around her lap without a word. The dog curls immediately at her feet, his chin resting atop her toes like a weighted comfort.
“I'll be just inside if you need anything,” Sam tells her quietly.
Nellie nods, her face turning toward the warmth of the sun, lips parted slightly in the stillness. She doesn't say much, doesn't need to. For a long while, she sits in silence, just breathing in the fresh air, her lungs still adjusting to the idea of normalcy. Miracle doesn't move except to shift his weight closer when her fingers twitch from nerves or flick against the armrest. His presence is steady. Real. No ghosts. No fire. Just a porch, the hum of morning, and a dog who acts like he's been assigned this task straight from Heaven.
After some time, she stirs again, the warmth from the sun beginning to feel too strong on her skin. “Come on, boy,” she murmurs, reaching down until she feels the wiry fur of his head. “Let's try not to get lost, yeah?”
Nellie rises slowly, careful with her balance, one hand brushing along the chair's arm, the other outstretched. Miracle immediately stands and nudges against her leg, gently herding her with soft bumps of his side as she makes her way back toward the door. She follows the remembered path, each step deliberate but not hesitant.
Inside, the air is cooler. She recognizes the shift in floor texture beneath her bare feet, the echo of the kitchen tile under her steps. The dog gives one final bump to guide her around the edge of a doorway, and she lets out a faint, amused huff of breath.
“Bossy little thing,” she mutters under her breath, but her hand reaches down again to find his fur and stroke between his ears. He licks her wrist in response.
The house has settled into its late-morning rhythm, quiet in the way only a home filled with love could be: soft footsteps, faint conversation from another room, the low rustle of pages turning. Nellie makes her way into the living room, her fingers trailing the wall. When she reaches the threshold, she pauses to listen. Sam's voice carries low and steady, reading aloud to Dean, who is curled up against his side on the couch.
“And so, the brave knight stood, his sword raised, not for glory or praise, but for the ones he loved most in the world…”
The little boy makes a delighted sound, half gasp, half giggle, and Nellie smiles faintly. Carefully, she steps into the room, guided by the soft tone of Sam's voice and the layout she was slowly beginning to memorize.
Sam notices her presence and looks up, voice fading mid-sentence. “Hey,” he greets gently. “How was the porch?”
“Sunny,” she replies, finding her way to the couch and easing herself down, Miracle hopping up and settling at her side like he'd been waiting for her. “Good for thinking.”
He watches her settle in, and she leans back into the couch cushions, her posture loose and relaxed in a way that had been almost impossible just a few days ago. She sighs, not as deeply as usual, but enough to draw his attention.
“You good over there?”
“Oh yeah, all good.” Then, adds casually, “I’m just resting my eyes.“
Sam blinks. A small laugh escapes him, low and warm. Not mocking, just amused. It is the kind of line that came with a particular type of humor. A very familiar one. He doesn't say it aloud, but something about the way she'd said it pulls at an old place in his chest, one lined with old memories and echoes of his brother. But now isn't the time to dig up ghosts. Right now, he is just happy to hear Nellie joke at all.
Across the room, Dean immediately scrambles toward her, throwing himself gently into her side with the kind of reckless affection only toddlers can pull off. Nellie stiffens for half a second, then allows it, adjusting herself so he can sit in her lap, resting his head against her shoulder. Miracle, undisturbed, stays sprawled at her side, only shifting slightly so Dean could fit too.
Sam continues reading the book aloud. He occasionally glances up at the three of them—his son, his niece, and his brother's dog—folded together in a picture he hadn't expected but deeply appreciates. In this small moment, things are calm. And maybe, just maybe, they will stay that way, at least for a little while.
The rest of the day drifts by in soft waves. After finishing their book, Sam helps Nellie with her morning care routine. Eileen returns from the store, and Nellie helps unpack what she can, feeling her way around the kitchen with Miracle never far from her heel. Lunch is light. Dean convinces Nellie to play with blocks again while Sam watches from a distance, his chest easing with every bit of laughter she doesn't realize she let out. The afternoon fades into dinner, the family moving as a quiet, easy unit. By the time the sky turns dark, Nellie is spent, her body still healing, her lungs still fighting, and her mind exhausted from the unfamiliar calm.
Eileen helps her through the evening routine, just as they had the night before: eye drops, new gauze, and a breathing treatment. Before she leaves, Nellie looks like she wants to say something, but the words don't come. She doesn't push. She just squeezes her niece's hand, tells her to get some rest, and leaves her room with Miracle curling up beside her like a sentinel.
The house stills. But the past doesn't always rest when you do.
• • •
Nellie stirs again, sweat beading along her brow, breath hitching in shallow bursts. In the quiet of the guest room, her body trembles beneath the blanket. And in her mind, she is back in the Branscomb house. But it isn't the memory exactly. It is twisted, off. The wallpaper peels like curling skin. The air is thick with something sickly sweet and wrong. She stands in the middle of the living room, staring down at her own hands. Blood stains her fingers, soaking beneath her nails. Her lungs sting. Her legs feel like stone.
From the corner of the room, she hears it: Sam's voice. Pained. Calling her name. She turns. There he is, on the floor. Eyes wide, gasping, holding his side. His shirt is soaked red, the wound already blooming like a flower across his ribs. Eleanor looms over him, chanting low in a language Nellie doesn't understand, her hands flickering with unstable magic.
“I can't—" Nellie whispers, backing up. Her knees hit the coffee table behind her. “Sam—"
“Do something!” he chokes out. His voice is strained, desperate. “Nellie, please—"
But she can't move. Her body wouldn't obey.
“You killed me,” Eleanor says, her voice no longer hers; it echoes from the walls, from inside Nellie's own head. “And now, you've killed him.”
A sickening crack echoes as her mother steps on Sam's chest. His body jerks and then stills.
“No!” Nellie screams, finally finding her voice, but it comes out as a whisper.
Suddenly, she is kneeling beside him. His face is slack. Blood dripped down his temple, pooling beneath his cheek. She reaches for him, hands shaking violently, but he doesn't respond.
She presses her palm to his chest. No heartbeat. Her vision swims with panic.
“I'm sorry,” she sobs. “I tried—I tried—please—"
But nothing changes. The world around her blurs. Darkens momentarily. She is in the motel room now, flames licking up the walls. Smoke stings her throat. The roar of fire and Eleanor's laughter fill her ears.
“You killed me,” her mother repeats from behind her. “And still couldn't save him.”
Nellie turns, and Eleanor stands in the doorway, burned, twisted, her face half missing, eyes gleaming with hatred.
“You have power,” she hisses. “You always had it. You are just too weak to use it.”
“I'm not like you,” Nellie whispers, trying to sound confident, but it comes out shaky.
But the fire rises around them, engulfing Sam's lifeless body on the floor. The smoke swallows her next breath. She can't see. Can't feel. The heat is everywhere.
“You are me,” her mother whispers into her ear.
Nellie screams—
Miracle stirs from his spot on the floor before the first sound leaves Nellie's mouth. His ears twitch, head lifting as her breathing changes: sharp, uneven gasps in the dark. A soft whimper escapes her, then a broken plea.
“No… no—please don't—Sam—don't hurt him—don't—"
The terrier is on his paws in an instant. He leaps up onto the bed, nudging her shoulder with his snout. Nellie flinches violently, jerking away, nearly tumbling off the mattress. He whines, pacing in a tight circle on the bed, then hops down and bolts for the door. Claws scratching frantically across the hardwood as he races down the hall and up the stairs. He throws himself against Sam and Eileen's bedroom door, barking sharply. One bark. Then two more, louder, more urgent.
Sam shot awake first, already halfway up before he even registered why. “What—?”
Miracle barks again, loud and frantic. Eileen is up beside him in an instant, eyes wide, signing fast. Something's wrong.
“Yeah,” Sam mutters, already opening the door. “I think it's Nellie.”
The dog takes off the second the door opens, leading him straight to the guest room. The second Sam steps in, his heart drops. Nellie is thrashing under her blanket, eyes hidden beneath her gauze but wide open behind them. Her mouth moves in silent screams. The sharp edges of her breath hitches and snaps like her lungs are fighting her own panic.
“No—don't hurt him—please, I didn't mean to—!”
“Nellie,” he calls, crossing the room in long strides. “Nell, it's me. Sam. You're safe, you're okay.”
But she can't hear him. Her arms swing out, fingers clawing at the air, and then at her face.
She tears at the bandages over her eyes.
“Shit—no—" he lunges forward just as the gauze slips free and crumples onto the bed.
Her frightened eyes dart uselessly in the dark, not seeing, only feeling the panic choke her.
“Nellie, stop—listen to me, you're okay!” he grasps her hands, gently but firmly, pulling them down from her face. “You're safe—it was a dream. Just a dream. I've got you.”
She thrashes in his hold, trying to pull away. “No—she's gonna kill you—I couldn't stop her—I didn't save you—" Her voice breaks completely. A jagged sob escapes, her chest heaving in short, high-pitched gasps.
Sam pulls her fully into his arms, sitting on the edge of the bed and wraps her tightly against his chest. “You did save me. Nellie. You did. I'm here. You did everything right.”
Eileen rushes in behind him, handing over an inhaler quickly.
“She's spiraling—her lungs,” he mutters. “I've got her. I just need her to breathe.”
He holds the inhaler near her lips. “Come on, Nellie. Just one deep breath.”
But she can't focus. Her body trembles like a live wire. She buries her face in Sam's chest, fists curling tight in his shirt. And then the sobs come. Not just fear. Not just panic. Full-body, grief-wracked sobs.
“I'm sorry,” she chokes out between gasps. “I'm so sorry, I didn't want to—I didn't mean to kill her—she made me—"
Sam presses a hand to the back of her head, holding her as close as he can. “I know,” he whispered. “I know, kiddo.”
He blinks fast, throat tight. His niece. This broken, bleeding soul of a young woman is trying so hard to be strong, and it is all spilling out of her now like the floodgates have snapped. “You're safe,” he repeats, over and over like a mantra. “You're not alone. I've got you. I've got you.”
Eileen crouches beside them, rubbing Nellie's back gently, whispering reassurances as Sam finally gets her to take one breath from the inhaler… then another. Miracle jumps back up on the bed, curling tightly against her side, head resting against her hip once again. Protective. Loyal. Grounding. Slowly, her shaking begins to settle. Her breathing deepens, though the sobs still come in soft waves, quieter now. She clings to Sam like a child desperate for her father, like she never had this kind of comfort before in her life. And maybe she hadn't.
Sam holds her long after her breathing evened out, whispering that she is safe, that she is loved, and that she isn't going to be alone—not anymore. He thinks she has drifted off. Her body has gone limp in his arms, her breathing softening into a slow, steady rhythm, and the tears have finally quieted. He shifts gently, easing her down toward the pillow.
But before her head touches the mattress, her voice comes, small, raw, and splintered around the edges. “Why do you treat me like I'm one of yours?”
Sam freezes. Eileen's hand stills on the blanket.
“I mean… I'm still a stranger to you,” Nellie continues, her words stumbling. “I didn't even know any of you existed like two weeks ago. And now you're… you're helping me, feeding me, giving me a place to sleep, treating me like I matter. I don't get it.” She lets out a shaky breath, her hands curling in the blanket beneath her. “I like being here. I really do. But I don't understand why. Why you care.”
Sam sits back down on the edge of the bed, his heart sinking and swelling all at once. Eileen sits beside him, her expression gentle in the low light.
He takes Nellie's hand in both of his, thumb brushing over the back of her knuckles. “Because you do matter. You always have. We just didn't know how to find you until now.”
“You're not a stranger,” his wife adds softly, her voice wrapping around the edges of the room like a warm blanket. “You're family. That's all that matters.”
“But I didn't do anything to deserve this,” the girl whispers. “I didn't even know who Dean was. And now I'm just… here. And it doesn't feel real. I keep thinking it's going to disappear.”
Sam leans in a little closer. “Nellie… Dean would have given anything to know you. To be your dad. And I—Eileen and I—are going to do everything we can to make up for the time you lost. Not because we have to. Not out of guilt. But because we want to. Because you're ours. You're Dean's daughter. You're my niece. And we love you.”
Nellie's chin trembles, her lip catching between her teeth.
Eileen reaches over, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. “It's okay if it takes time. We'll go as slow as you need. But we're not going anywhere. You're not alone anymore.”
A fresh tear slides from beneath the fogged edges of her eyes. “Okay,” she murmurs.
Sam tucks the blanket around her, his touch feather-light. “We've got you, kiddo. You don't have to understand it all tonight. Just know that we're not letting you go.”
Miracle shifts beside her, resting his head back on her arm with a low sigh, as if echoing Sam's words. Nellie doesn't say anything more. But as Sam gently lays her back and brushes the back of his hand along her hairline, her fingers find his and hold on, just for a second longer. Once she finally settles again, her body loose, her breathing slow, Sam and Eileen quietly step out of the room. The door clicks shut behind them, muffled by the hush of the late hour.
Sam leans back against the wall just outside her room and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. His breath trembles, catching in his throat, and for a long second, he just stands there, still, silent, like if he moves too fast, the weight of it all will knock him flat.
“She actually asked us why,” he rasps. “Why we care. Why we treat her like family.” His voice cracks at the edge. “Like she doesn't believe she's allowed to have it.”
Eileen steps toward her husband, wordless, one hand finding his arm, grounding him.
He shakes his head. “She thought we'd just let her go. That we were doing this out of guilt. Like she's a burden we're dragging behind us.” His eyes are glassy now, throat bobbing with the effort to keep his voice steady. “And the worst part is… I don't know how to prove to her that she's wrong.”
“You are,” she says gently, her eyes shimmering too. “Every day you're showing her. She just… doesn't know how to see it yet.”
He lets out a hollow breath, his hand dragging through his hair. “Dean would've known what to say. How to reach her. Hell, maybe she wouldn't even be this broken if he'd been around. And I keep thinking that—if I had just figured it out sooner, if I had just been there sooner—maybe Roger would still be alive, and Nellie wouldn't be waking up choking on nightmares.”
She takes his face in both hands, firm but tender. “You're not Dean,” she states, voice soft but fierce. “But you're you. And that's who she needs now.”
Sam's jaw clenches, breath stuttering again as he finally lets the tears fall. Eileen pulls him close, holding him tight, her own shoulders shaking.
“She deserves better than what the world gave her,” he whispers against her hair. “But damn it, I'm gonna give her everything I can. Whatever it takes.”
“I know,” Eileen whispers back. “And she's starting to believe it. You saw that tonight.”
They stand like that, just the two of them in the quiet hallway, letting the heartbreak settle, letting the hope breathe. And behind the closed door, the newest Winchester sleeps soundly, her body resting beneath the blankets, Miracle curling close like a silent sentinel. She is just now starting to understand: she is home.
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